Let's go Home!

A final series of photos from yesterday's run.

Because of the depth of the fresh snow, we didn't go very far. In order to maximize the fun factor, and the amount of energy expended by the girls, I'd tell them "Let's go home!" and watch them race down the hill, then after a few seconds yell out, "Come!" and watch them come racing back toward me for a treat.

The top photo is a "Let's go home!" shot; the next one taken just a second later (as soon as my camera would allow); the third one after yelling "Come!"; the fourth one another "Let's go!" shot; the final photo shows two slightly out of breath dogs at the bottom of the hill.

On any such outing, the maximum amount of excitement (as seen in their demeanor and body language) is the moment I either say, "Let's go home!" or I just silently but decidedly turn back toward the trail head. It doesn't matter how much they might have been lagging or sniffing, as soon as they realize I'm serious about turning back, they race toward the trail head with exhilaration. The racing doesn't last long, especially if I ask them to "Wait!" because I can't keep up. It's just so much fun to see their complete joy and elation when we turn back for home. Zoom!

I've often wondered why that should be. You'd think that, like me, they'd want to stay out in the forest all day! The possibilities are: (a) they're tired; (b) they're bored on the same old route; (c) they're afraid I'll take them too far and they'll be stiff and sore; or (d) they're afraid I'll get them lost. Sometimes, in Maia's case, it's probably because there are animals out there she'd rather not see up close and personal (bears, wolves).

But I think the real reason is this: Malamutes have an unerring sense of direction and task. They make such great sled dogs because they want to go from point A to point B, and will keep on course to point B until they accomplish their goal. In my case, with the girls, point B is almost always the same as point A: the trail head. Even when Maia doesn't assume the lead on the outbound portion of a run, she almost always assumes the lead on the way back, because as soon as we turn around, she's certain where point B is and can't wait to take me there. Job well done!

When we're setting out on a run, she's not certain of the final destination, and so isn't as eager to take the lead. But usually she does, as if she can't ignore her genetic makeup.

Maia also knows when we're past the halfway point of a loop run of a familiar route. The first half, she might try to turn me back with nudges against my hand or leg, or lag behind a bit, her way of showing me the most direct way home. Yet as soon as we pass that halfway point, she's pulling and eager to get to the finish by completing the loop.

The only time Meadow shows extra speed on the return leg of a run is when we hit what I call a "roller coaster" section of trail: where there's a dip and a rise. Meadow will hang back, then race past me, and Maia, at the bottom of the dip and use her momentum to prance up the other side. At the top of the rise, she'll stop, let Maia and me pass, and resume her backup position until the next roller coaster section. On trails we do regularly, she has each spot mapped in her head, and I can predict when she'll come racing by me. I always shout, "Zoom!" as she flies by.

I like to encourage playful behavior.

When we lived and ran in western Washington, Maia always, always knew the shortest route back to the car. She only needed to see and run a route one time to have it permanently detailed in her brain (and nose). Every time we came to an intersection with more than one option, she'd shyly start down the route that was shortest, and if I'd veto her choice and head down the longer route, she'd lag behind for a minute or so, as if to say, "But, but...this is the best way!" I always knew I'd never get lost in the woods as long as I had Maia with me. I've often joked that she came with a GPS unit for a brain.

Meadow? Well, she always lets Maia do the work in terms of route finding. On rare occasions when I didn't have Maia with me, I'd pause to see if Meadow would take over that role of leading me back to the trail head. Nope. She'd just look at me, puzzled. If I'd ask her to pick a route by saying something like, "Which way to the car?" she'd act shy and confused and refuse to do anything but follow me.

Yet Meadow knows all the switchbacks. On any downhill stretch of trail, Meadow will hang back at the start of a switchback while Maia leads me through to the elbow. As Maia and I continue on the lower portion of the switchback, Meadow will come popping out of the undergrowth, smiling, teasing Maia. Meadow's not trying to get ahead of us; she's just playing with us. I started calling her a cheater. Now, whenever Meadow cuts a switchback, I call, "Cheater, cheater!" I'm sure I've encouraged her by doing so, just as my "Zoom!" exclamations encourage her in the roller coasters. When she first started cutting switchbacks, I tried to discourage it, but eventually relented because she enjoys it so much, and she doesn't do any visible damage to the terrain. No worse than a deer or elk occasionally cutting switchbacks.

Interestingly, Maia almost never cuts a switchback; if she does, it's because she's playing with Meadow. Normally, Maia's much too focused on staying on the trail and leading us to point B.

Different dogs, different strengths, quirks and personalities. Combined, they're unbeatable. They are my windows to the natural world, my escorts through the forest.